


chewing through the ropes

by Mothervvoid



Series: Lamentations [1]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Technoblade Hears Voices (Video Blogging RPF), Violent Thoughts, very little comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28598196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothervvoid/pseuds/Mothervvoid
Summary: [If gods can bleed, gods can die]But what if God bows his bloodied head and weeps? Can God cry?
Relationships: Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: Lamentations [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2113842
Comments: 11
Kudos: 148





	1. i will hide myself below

**Author's Note:**

> title from carnivore by starset. techno's 1/5/20 stream hurt my soul but i desired even more angst so here you go. canon divergence because i needed some more sweet, sweet angst.

You come home alone. Though your head is bowed, you seethe, barely contained rage boiling just under your skin that shrieks along with the many keening voices in your mind, begging you to _turn back, turn around, rise from this defeat,_ braying for you to rise and join the chorus of voices crying out as one; _Blood for the Blood God, make them bleed._

It occurred to you that it was happening all over again. They ask for your help and you answer, like some fucked-up fairy godmother that brings swords and armor instead of dresses and glass slippers; and how do they thank you? They turn against you, wearing your armor, wielding your weapons. 

What stings the most was who it comes from this time. Tommy. The little rat that burrowed under your floorboards and stole your stuff. The kid who dug his filthy little claws into your heart, built a nest and lived there; and when he left, when he betrayed you, the empty space left behind had the audacity to ache. 

There are things you could use to fill in the gap, all of it red and slick.

Why didn’t it hurt when Pogtopia collapsed in on itself? You knew deep down the others were fighting for a country you would rather just cease to exist all together, but you also knew that Wilbur wanted to blow it sky-high. You’d egged him on, and Tommy _hated_ you for it. Would Philza hate you for it too, if he knew the role you played in Wilbur’s madness?

Not Philza. Not Phil.

Your house grows larger on the horizon.

You come home alone, and Phil stops you. He’s concerned, because Tommy isn’t with you. Tommy, who he’s asked after before you set off to investigate the festival in L’manberg. Tommy, who you’d admitted had grown on you, who’d wormed his way past your walls. 

Tommy, who sided with the boy who exiled him. Dug himself out from between the dense fibres of your heart, ripping through the muscle without care and walked away, had the gall to act _surprised_ at your desire to destroy the very country who exiled him in the first place.

It hurts. 

“Where’s Tommy?”

You pull yourself together so well. You answer in the same voice you’d use to tell Philza what you’re planning on having for lunch; “Tommy’s gone. Back to L’manberg.”

You try to shove past Philza, but the man is persistent. “What? What do you mean he’s gone back to L’manberg?”

“I mean he’s gone. He’s back with Tubbo and L’manberg,” You brush him off again, trying to make your way to the house. Not far now. 

“Okay-” Finally he grasps it, Tommy isn’t come back; “Come inside, we can-”

You promptly turn on your heel and head back towards the trees. You don’t need to go inside after all. You need to scream. You need to break something. You need to find the nearest stronghold and turn it into a proper bloody massacre.

Phil lets you go. It’s not like you go far, just somewhere off in the trees, somewhere you won’t be bothered for a while, so you can take out your frustrations on some poor tree, a stupid zombie, maybe a particularly brave skeleton. 

It isn’t until most of the unfortunate tree that you’ve picked is splinters at your feet, your sword is dulled to the point of uselessness and blisters have started to form on your hands that Phil comes to find you. He doesn’t come close, merely standing several feet away, observing, waiting for you to calm down enough to notice that he’s there.

Philza. Someone else who had crawled inside of you and made a home in your heart, who loved you like his own; _chose_ you over his own, in some cases.

You don’t even feel guilty about that (even though you probably should). 

Your sword slips to the ground, like water through your fingertips, like everything else lately that slipped through your grasp and instead of the normal overwhelming rage that you're used to, you’re left with something else. Something worse.

You stagger forward and fall towards Philza in complete and utter exhaustion.

Phil, for his part, tries to brace for you. He holds out his arms, envelopes you in his ever-welcoming embrace; but he wasn’t expecting you to drop on him like a deadweight. You tumble into the snow, Philza-first, clinging to him like your life depended on it. 

Your eyes close, you try to steady your breathing; but Philza curls around you, a hand on the back of your head; and something within you cracks. Something claws its way up your throat, something sharp, and mournful, and full of pain. 

“I gave him armor, food, shelter…” You mumble into Philza’s heavy cloak; “This always happens, Phil-”

You bury your head further into Phil’s many layers, you curl into yourself and wish you were small. You wish you were a child, because children weep over betrayals. Not you. Not the Blood God. You bow your head and bite your lip and try to will away the tears.

You’re not crying. You’re not.

“‘M sorry, Tech,” A hand slides up and down your back, slowly (you want to scream, you want to bawl your eyes out, you want to get up and keep breaking things). Your body lays heavily in Philza’s lap, cold slowly creeping into your limbs.

“ _I’m never trustin’ anyone again,_ ” You swear, tone turning dark.

Silence falls. 

“Well that is a shame,” A voice rings out from the opposite end of the clearing; “Because I was hoping we might be able to team up.”

Your eyes rise up to rest upon that _stupid_ smiley face, and up you shoot from the protective grasp of Phil’s arms, up onto your knees next to the other man. Your clothes are soaked, a passing breeze chills you nearly to the bone. 

“Is this what you really wanna spend your favor on?”

A smile curls under a porcelain mask. 

“No. I have something else in mind for that. I was thinking we could destroy L’manberg, together.”

 _yes, yes, yes, yes, yes;_ the rising chorus chants, the hole in your chest demands reprisal; _revenge, revenge, revenge, blood, bloodblOOD MAKE THEM BLEED, BLOOD FOR THE BL-_

Someone once said that the enemy of your enemy was your friend. You’re not friends with Dream by any means, but you could respect that you had a common goal. 

“When do you wanna start?” 


	2. facing tempests of dust, i'll fight until the end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EVERYONE THANK M83 FOR WRITING AND COMPOSING 'MY TEARS ARE BECOMING A SEA' BECAUSE WITHOUT IT THIS WOULD HAVE BEEN DONE SO MUCH SLOWER PROBABLY.
> 
> 1/6/2020 streams killed me im dead. im dead!!!!!!! i cried. also the one time the perspective shifts from 2nd person to 3rd person isnt a mistake i like to distinguish the blood god from techno sometimes. title from m83's 'outro'

Philza leads you home. You’re riding your adrenaline rush to its inevitable crash against the hard rocks of exhaustion, limbs already feeling heavy. Despite the enervation that vys for you at the corner of your eyelids, a stupid smile plasters itself across your face.

You won. After everything, _you_ won.

Is this how Wilbur felt, after he pressed that button? This overwhelming sense of elation? It wasn’t spite. You imagine he was full of spite. He wasn’t entirely there, towards the end; and it was partially your fault. You egged him on after all, you loved the idea of getting rid of it all. 

But power corrupts. It wasn’t just you that killed what was left of Wilbur, it had been L’manberg itself. His symphony, his failure. It ate its way through his brain and lived amongst the sinapses until he snapped. 

Have you snapped?

_Tommy’s found a place to stand amongst the rubble. He almost looks like a proper leader up there, his own little man in a high castle. Begging you to look at him. Begging you to listen._

_And like the fool you are, you do._

_You both make eye contact and the screaming match begins._

_Your heart is coming out of your mouth, verbal vomit in its most vitriolic form as you hurl feelings you rarely talk about at the person who betrayed your trust. None of it is soft, or kind, not that Tommy is any kinder with his own words. You want it to hurt. You want to hurt, you want him to know, to feel the same way you feel._

_Someone more constructive would tell you to take your pain and make it useful. This was useful. You tell them what you’ve always told them, what you’ve always sought to do whether they wanted it or not. Tear down the source of the pain. Tear it down to rubble, to its very foundations. You want to see bedrock, you want a crater so cavernous that no nation could ever claw its way back out of the dark hole you left it in._

_But then Tommy says something that catches you off-guard. Something that re-ignites the slowly cooling rage in your belly and turns it to an inferno, one that fills your veins and head and brain._

_“People are more important than countries!” God. It’s like this kid purposefully shoves a wad of cotton in his ears everyday, it’s practically all his brain is made of._

_You bellow in response. Your jaw practically unhinges in simmering fury as the words; “I’m a person!” erupt from your throat._

_It doesn’t matter. He launches into some rant about the discs and L’manberg again. He’s been calling you ‘The Blade’ this whole time. He’s tone deaf._

_He’s a child._

_He’s_ Phil’s _child._

_Quackity runs past, a suitable target for your fury. “I’m killin’ Quackity!” You announce, before launching yourself at the Butcher Army’s leader and once again everything descends once more into comforting, familiar chaos._

“Techno.”

You’re in front of your cottage. Nothing has changed, except for the footprints you’d left in the snow this morning. They’re gone now, having been filled in by a new blanket of soft snow.

You sink down onto your knees in the virgin snowbank before the steps leading to your front porch. Cold creeps into your legs and reminds you where you are. Outside, in front of your house. The green in the corner of your eye was Phil, standing close, but not too close.

He knows not to come near the Blood God when he was at his weakest. Not unless he asked for help, or to be held.

The snow around you turns pink and you almost laugh as your mind absurdly turns to the color of your hair. Nevermind that you don’t know whose blood it was, your own or one of the many people you’d hurt back in L’manberg. It doesn’t matter to you either, not right now, as you bow your bloodied head, and press your forehead against the wood of your front step.

You laugh. Maybe you cry. Your eyes sting, your shoulders shake. You feel so many things right now; relief, anger, exhaustion. 

Grief. 

A quiet whisper mumbles in your mind; _Technosad, Technogrieve, you got your revenge (bask in our glory), Blood for the Blood God._

There comes a point when Philza finally (gently) takes you by the shoulders and pulls you to your feet. The Blood God relinquishes control and you allow yourself to be led up the stairs into your home. 

Despite your discombobulated state, you look Phil over first. He’s fine, but for a few token scraps and bruises, a bit disheveled and covered in ash from the explosions and withers. The Totem of Undying that you gave him was still safely tucked into his belt, intact and unused.

You’re grateful, “You didn’t have to do that.” 

“I know,” Philza replies. It’s his turn to sound casual, as if you didn’t just destroy L’manberg and his house and his son’s legacy; “I wanted to.”

“Don’t go riskin’ your life for me, Philza,” You remark, fatigue beginning to bleed into your voice as your adrenaline finally begins to wane; “You’re all I have left.”

Phil walks forward, rests a hand on your arm, fond as a father; “You’re all I’ve got left too.”

You wonder if he means it. Tommy is still out there, after all. Or maybe he does mean it. Maybe he let Tommy go.

There’s a hole in your chest, so deep that you can see bedrock if you looked far enough. When you think about it, about why it's there, your chest _aches_.

Maybe you should let Tommy go too.


End file.
